


A Different Fall

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Desperation, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Guilt, M/M, Manipulation, Overdose, Possible Dubious Consent, Responsibility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock stumbles back into addiction, John falls with him. Will recovery come to either one of them?</p><p>Please read the tags: this one's a little heavier than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Is Not Right

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe.
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments. They mean a lot -- sometimes they inspire new ideas and works, sometimes they just make us feel all warm inside.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It's not like Sherlock regretted having John in the flat.

Because he didn't. He really didn't. John helped with cases and was usually interesting and occasionally they'd had what Sherlock might call fun if he ever used the word fun, which he was sure he never had.

However, there were some things in their lives that the other one would never understand. Sherlock would never understand why John wore those jumpers, how he could eat so much in one sitting, and what John did so long in the bathroom each morning.

And John would never understand what was going on in Sherlock's head right now.

Sherlock was experiencing one of his spells, the first one he'd had since John had moved in. His head was full of things -- words and pictures and sounds and textures and he felt like he was swimming through them, pushing them out of the way so that he could get to the surface and breathe. But he couldn't. He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't remember when it started or why, but at about four this morning, he'd realised what was happening. He'd stayed in bed all day on the slight chance that it'd go away. It didn't. So it was now almost midnight and Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, waiting for John to go to bed, so that Sherlock could go out and get what he needed.

John was on the sofa, pretending to watch the movie that had ended an hour ago. He was waiting to be sure Sherlock had gone to sleep because things had been odd all day, and John was worried that Sherlock was ill. John had hardly seen him, which wasn't exactly unusual, but today he didn't even come out for tea. John sighed and turned the telly off because it was late and really, he couldn't just sit on the sofa all night waiting to be sure things were all right. He took his mug into the kitchen and glanced at Sherlock's room. 

A selfish part of him had wanted Sherlock to come out just so they could spend time together. John hadn't been living here for very long but the effect Sherlock had on him . . . it had happened very quickly and had surprised John. He'd fallen in love with him. Of course, Sherlock had also set the boundaries quickly. He didn't do relationships. That left John pining for him and trying to be content in the friendship that was forming between them. He took solace in the fact that everyone constantly reminded him that Sherlock didn't have friends, but he kept John. If he tried hard enough, John could be satisfied with just that. 

He got ready for bed and climbed under his covers, pulling them up high and trying to shut off his mind. Sherlock was just in one of his moods. He was going to be fine. 

Sherlock heard John's bedroom door shut and stood up. He waited as long as he could before slipping out of his room and then the flat, quickly and quietly. As soon as he was outside, he started to fill with anticipation. He walked a few streets over and then got a taxi. He directed the driver to an old, run-down hotel and asked him to wait. He refused but said agreed to return in fifteen minutes. That was fine. That was all the time Sherlock needed.

He entered the building and found what he was looking for. When he came out, the taxi was there.

"I said fifteen minutes, not a half hour," the driver said.

"Take me to where you picked me up," Sherlock said. "Go fast."

Then he was on the street again, walking back to the flat. The cold air stung his face but it felt good. He inhaled deeply and his nose and throat stung as well. But that too felt good. He could breathe.

"I feel good," he thought and then realised he was talking aloud. He struggled a little with the key to the door but then stumbled in and up the stairs. He got his arms twisted in his coat as he tried to take it off and laughed a little. "Shhh," he said and then laughed a little again. He went into his room and stuck the bag in his pocket into his bottom drawer and shut it quietly. He sat on the bed. His mind was so clear -- it was like he'd never felt so good. He felt like he sat there for hours, just feeling good. Then he got up to get a glass of water.

John blinked his eyes open and propped himself up on his elbow. Was that the door he'd heard? He got up and put on his dressing gown, padding to the stairs and slowly making his way down, trying to look around. "Sherlock?" he called out softly, following the sounds he heard in the kitchen. "Are you all right?" he asked when he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock turned and looked at John. He was so handsome. "It's the middle of the night," he said. He wasn't sure if it was the right answer to John's question.

"I know. I just heard you come in and I was worried," John said. He tried to study him, to find some small clue to what he'd been doing, but it was impossible -- he couldn't read people like Sherlock could. "Are you okay?" he asked again.

"Why aren't you in bed?" Sherlock said. "I was in bed." He took a drink of water but didn't get the angle quite right. He swiped his hand over his mouth. "Why?"

John's brows furrowed lightly. "I just told you, I heard you come in a minute ago. What's the matter? Why did you leave the flat so late?"

"I was in bed," Sherlock repeated. "Where were you?"

John moved closer and looked into Sherlock's eyes. They were unfocused, the pupils wide. He was high. "Oh Sherlock," John sighed softly. He'd been warned about this but he thought -- well, he had hoped now that he was here Sherlock wouldn't use anymore. "You need to go lie down."

Sherlock set the glass down and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he did. He opened his eyes again. "John, I need you to . . . I need to show you something," he said. "But you need to stop talking. So I can show you the thing. I need to." He walked a step closer to John. "Okay? Say okay."

John watched him grab the table and almost reached out to steady him. "What is it?"

"Come in to my room," Sherlock said. He walked in and told John to sit down on the bed.

John followed, looking around Sherlock's room. Despite the odd moment they were having, he'd always been curious about it. "Sherlock? What's going on? You're scaring me. . ."

"Stop talking," Sherlock said. He pulled the top drawer of his nightstand and dug around until he found a bottle of lube and a condom. He dropped the bottle of lube on John's lap. "Put this between your legs," he said. He awkwardly kicked off his shoes and opened his trousers. His cock was hard and he tried to watch John, but his vision was blurred and his head was empty and he wanted the world to stay like that.

John caught what Sherlock tossed at him, looking down at it and feeling his stomach drop. "Put it . . . what do you mean?" he asked stupidly. When he looked up, he swore softly because Sherlock's cock was out and hard and John couldn't look away. A small part of him knew this was because Sherlock was high, but the larger part didn't want to stop it.

Sherlock didn't open his eyes. "You know what's happening," he said. "Do it."

John looked up at Sherlock's face. "Is the condom for me or you?" he asked softly, slipping out of his robe and sitting in his pants for a moment.

"Take everything off," Sherlock said. "Stop talking. I need you to go fast and stop talking."

John stood up and took his pants off as well. He was hard too, not as severely as Sherlock, but he was getting there. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"I want you to stop talking," Sherlock said. "God, you're so loud. Your voice in my head . . ." He moved closer to the bed, leaning down and picking up the bottle. "Pour this into your hand and put it between your legs. Then get on the bed." He tore open the condom and rolled it on himself.

John took the bottle and swallowed hard. He got onto the bed again and, still facing Sherlock, he bent forward and did what Sherlock wanted. It wasn't the first time he'd used his fingers on himself, but it was embarrassing doing it with Sherlock watching him. But then he glanced up and saw that Sherlock's eyes were barely open and his face was empty. "You're high," John said as he spread the lube everywhere.

Sherlock didn't hear John's voice anymore. He was thinking about what was going to happen. What was going to happen filled the room like air. Sherlock inhaled it deeply. "Get on the bed on your stomach," Sherlock said.

John worked his fingers a moment longer before moving to the middle of the bed and lying on his stomach. He turned his head to watch Sherlock, breathing in his scent from the sheets, gripping them in his fists.

Sherlock moved to the bed. He lifted John's hips a little and used his knee to separate John's legs. He pressed his own hips against John's arse -- the pressure felt good. He lined himself up and pushed inside John. Time seemed to stop and the tightness around his cock filled his body and brain with pleasure.

"Fuck," John groaned softly, gripping the bed harder. He was still too tight but the stretch felt strangely good. This was Sherlock finally giving John what he'd imagined. _Even though he's high._ John ignored that and focused on the other feelings.

"Stop talking," Sherlock mumbled. He pulled back a little before pushing in again. He moaned loudly -- the sound echoed in the room or in his head. God, it felt so good -- his body was now moving faster, harder. He grunted as he thrust into John.

John closed his eyes and gripped the bed harder, panting and moaning softly as Sherlock filled him over and over. His own cock was leaking, and he slid one hand down to hold himself.

Sherlock's body took over his brain -- normally there was nothing he hated more -- but when he was high, it was easier. Besides, right now his body wasn't demanding boring things like food or rest -- it was blocking out everything difficult and confusing and replacing it with pure pleasure. He squeezed John's hips with his hands, pulling them back against the crash of his own hips, and then he was coming and the blackness in his brain filled with colour and he thought his heart stopped and he didn't even care. And then he was back in the dark room, back against John's body, and he pulled away, threw the condom to the floor, and fell down onto the bed to let sleep take him.

John heard Sherlock's breathing and moaning and then the sudden desperate break of pleasure. He couldn't help but stroke his own cock until he came, slumping down onto the bed beside him to catch his breath. He looked over and saw that Sherlock was already falling asleep.

John sighed and tried not to think too much just yet. He got up and put his pants back on, followed by his dressing gown. He lifted Sherlock and put him into pajamas before tucking him in. He checked his pupils and pulse to make sure everything was okay. He took the condom from the floor and left the room quietly.

Now he started to freak out. Sherlock was high out of his mind and John had allowed that to happen. What if Sherlock didn't even remember in the morning? Or worse, what if he did and demanded to know why John hadn't stopped him? He'd know about John's feelings for him, and Sherlock didn't do feelings. John hurried into his room where he tossed out the condom and crawled under his covers again.

He hadn't stopped it because he had wanted it -- he'd wanted Sherlock for so long but that didn't make this right. Maybe it was just a one-time thing. Maybe he wouldn't remember. John pressed his eyes hard and closed them, willing sleep to come.


	2. Things Don't Get Better

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the room was no longer black. He saw the light streaming in from the edge of the curtains and for a moment he felt like crying. His brain was crowded again and he just wanted back what he'd felt last night -- the black silence of a brain that'd been allowed to stop for a while. He rolled over on his side and realised that not only did he feel unhappy, he felt a bit sick. But he couldn't make himself get up, not yet. He closed his eyes to will sleep to return but it didn't. After a while, he slowly pulled himself up to sit and try to decide what to do.

He needed water. He knew that. But he didn't want to see John. He had tried so hard to be sure John didn't know he'd gone out because he knew John wouldn't understand. There was no need to involve John in this madness -- Sherlock hoped it would pass in a while like it usually did and maybe John need never know. John was good, having him here was good, and Sherlock didn't want to let this part of his life ruin the one part that was good. He tried to listen for sounds in the flat, but it was hard to hear through all the sounds already bouncing around his head.

He reached over to get his phone from the bedside cabinet. It wasn't there but the top drawer was open. He felt a bit of panic and reached in, feeling around. He couldn't find what he was looking for so he pulled open the bottom drawer and it was there -- what he'd gone out last night to get. He took it out and locked it in the box at the bottom of his wardrobe. He moved back to the bed and that's when he saw it.

The bottle of lube amidst the blankets on the bed.

He grabbed it and threw it back in the drawer, closing it quickly as if someone might see. What had he done last night? He closed his eyes and tried to think. He remembered the taxi and the man inside the hotel. There were others there but Sherlock hadn't really seen them. He couldn't imagine bringing one of them back here. He never brought anyone back to the flat. Even when he had that need, he'd never brought that need back to the flat. He was in control of this flat -- it was his space and even at his craziest, unthinking times, he'd never forgotten that.

Except now it wasn't just his space. It was John's as well. Sherlock was no longer entirely in control of this flat. Is that why Sherlock had brought someone home? No, he couldn't believe that. Sherlock knew the drugs changed him -- that's why he sought them out in the first place -- but he would not have broken his own rule just to make some point about John's presence his life.

He had to make sure John never knew about this. The drugs or the sex. He had to make sure. But what if he already did -- what if he'd caught Sherlock coming in with someone? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. He remembered the taxi dropping him off, he remembered walking. Was he walking with someone? No. He was alone, he was sure of it. He couldn't remember anyone else at all. Except . . .

Except John. John had spoken to Sherlock last night. He remembered them speaking. He remembered John being worried. But they were in the kitchen. He remembered them being in the kitchen. He tried to remember getting from the kitchen to the bedroom, but he couldn't. He couldn't see it in his head.

His stomach hurt. He lay back down a little and tried to breathe deeply. He closed his eyes. And then he saw it. Like a photograph -- not a memory really -- something outside himself. He saw it as an observer, not a participant. What he saw was an image of fucking John on this bed.

He couldn't breathe all of a sudden and began coughing. He sat up and reached for the glass of water that wasn't there. He tried to calm himself, tried to get air into his lungs until the coughing stopped. Oh god, what had he done . . . He needed to think. Think! he screamed inside his head.

Where was the condom? Had he used a condom? What had John said or done? How on earth had it happened?

Sherlock could not remember. He knew he could lie there all day and would not remember. There were millions of things in his head but he knew the only thing in there about what had happened in this room last night was just that one image. That's all he could see. He'd never be able to see more and he'd never be able to not see it.

He needed water. He'd have to get up. He rubbed his eyes and face. This could never happen again. He'd have to be more careful.

John eventually slept but it wasn't good. He tossed and turned, he had nightmares about Sherlock overdosing and dying, he woke up several times throughout the night until finally he didn't even bother going back to sleep. He lay in his bed for a while, trying to decide about going down, when he heard movement in the kitchen.

He sat up and put his dressing gown on again. He needed to get this over with. Whatever Sherlock was going to say or not say, it needed to be done so they could move on. He padded downstairs carefully, joining Sherlock in the kitchen. He looked awful but John didn't mention it.

"Morning," he said quietly as he started the kettle.

"Morning," Sherlock said back, too afraid to look over at John. He didn't want John to say anything about last night. As long as it was never talked about, he could pretend it never happened or try to convince himself he'd remembered it wrong. As long as it was never talked about.

"How are you feeling?" John asked carefully, pouring tea for both of them and sliding the mug over to Sherlock. "I heard you come in late . . ." He didn't add anything else so that Sherlock could make up whatever he wanted John to believe. And John would pretend to believe it because he didn't know what else to do.

"Yes, um, I don't think I'm . . . very well. I needed some medication . . . I think a few days' rest . . ." Sherlock said, lifting the mug to his face and swallowing some tea. It was too hot but his throat was so dry. "I hope I didn't dist--" No, that was not something he should say. "--I mean, I won't be going out again. I think I'll just stay in my room until I'm feeling better." He took another sip of tea.

John watched Sherlock closely as he spoke. He'd come so close to saying -- well, it didn't matter because he didn't say it. It was hard to tell if he remembered. "Well, just let me know if you need anything. I'll be in the sitting room, working on the blog." He looked at Sherlock for a moment longer before heading into the sitting room, walking slowly so Sherlock wouldn't notice anything about it. He was still just a bit sore from last night.

Sherlock stayed still, drinking his tea and then pouring another cup. He took it and a bottle of water and moved towards his room. "I think I'll lie down," he said. "I'm sorry -- I'll feel better soon." He opened his door and shut it behind him.

John looked over at Sherlock's room. He was glad they weren't talking about it, but now he wondered if Sherlock was tormenting himself. Did he remember and now felt guilty? He got up quickly while Sherlock's words were still fresh. "It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay. Just . . . feel better, okay?" He touched the door before going to the sitting room again. He wondered if he should call Mycroft but if it was only this one time . . . well, he would wait and see.

Sherlock stayed in his room for the day, mostly sleeping in an effort to not be thinking. But he dreamt -- the dreams were vivid and complicated and unsettling. At one point, they startled him so much he sat straight up, caught in that minute line between awake and asleep. His heart pounded in his chest. He slipped into the bathroom, not even looking up to see where John might be. He wanted to take a bath but didn't want to be out of the safety of his room so long. He stood under the shower, slowly turning it to cold water until he couldn't take it anymore. He went back into his room, shivering, curling under the covers until he slept again.

John sat in his chair and browsed through the blog, answering messages and more importantly looking for possible cases. If he could find something for them to go out and do, something to keep Sherlock's interest, maybe he wouldn't go out looking for drugs anymore. But then if he didn't get high, they would never have sex again. Shame bubbled in his stomach and made him feel sick. He couldn't believe that thought had even crossed his mind. Sherlock's health was the most important thing now. There was no way Sherlock could leave for drugs again. 

John heard Sherlock get up and go into the shower. He wondered if that meant he was feeling better, and he anticipated him coming out into the sitting room. He even got up and started the kettle but then Sherlock slipped back into his room again. John sighed and made himself some tea. He decided he would just have to stay watchful, making sure that Sherlock wasn't sneaking out for more drugs. 

Around dinner time John heated leftovers, asking Sherlock through the door if he wanted anything. There was no answer so John assumed he was sleeping. He ate at the table alone, settled on the sofa, and turned on the news. He needed to find a case quickly. 

The noises in his head kept Sherlock from sleeping soundly. He couldn't take it anymore. He got up and moved to the wardrobe. He was having a spell -- it wouldn't last -- he just needed to get through it. John's presence hadn't kept this spell from occurring, it wouldn't help him get through it. Sherlock knew how to get through it.

He quickly prepared it and then just as quickly hid it away again. He let himself slump on the floor for the first few moments -- it was a kind of helplessness he'd normally hate but there was a strange comfort in it. Then he knew he had to get up. He stood and let the room move around him. He was totally separate from the movement, totally separate from the world. But this time the difference didn't isolate him or hurt him or make him feel like a freak. This time it felt good. He moved to the bed and fell back on it. He was floating. He felt better. He felt good.

John was taking notes in a little notebook. Finally he stood and went to Sherlock's room. "Sherlock? I found some cases maybe . . . do you want to take a look?" 

"John," Sherlock mumbled. He rolled on his side and saw the picture in this mind. He wanted to feel that good again. "John," he said again, his eyes still closed.

John pushed the door open and peeked into his room. "Sherlock? Do you want to see the notes?" 

"No," Sherlock said. He was facing away from the door and he let his hand move to his cock, holding it through his pajamas. "John," he said again softly, his voice almost a moan.

The sound of Sherlock's voice made John feel warm. He stepped into the room and shut the door. "I, um, I just wrote some stuff down . . ." His voice was barely over mumbling. He tried to peek around to see what Sherlock was doing even though he had a pretty good idea. Did he want to again? Was he high?

"Please," Sherlock said. "I need you to . . . help me."

John put his notebook down on the chair and moved even closer to Sherlock. His own cock started to strain against his pants. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not . . . well," Sherlock mumbled. "Help me feel better."

John moved closer and reached out, touching his arm lightly. "Tell me what you need," he said, even though his hand was drawn to the bulge in Sherlock's pajamas. He looked up at Sherlock's eyes. He was high again.

Sherlock closed his eyes but he could still see John's face. "You know what I need," he tried to say. His hand was over John's and he knew he was going to get what he wanted and he thought his face might be smiling.

John leaned up and kissed his mouth softly, pushing his hand into Sherlock's pajamas and palming his cock.

Sherlock turned his head away from John's kiss and said, "Stop talking." He pushed himself up from the bed, moving to the drawer. He got out a condom. "All fours," he said. He could hear the words but it didn't sound like his voice and that was fine with him.

John leaned back and sighed softly, climbing onto the bed and getting his hands and knees with his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock crawled up on the bed, wobbling a bit before steadying himself behind John's body. He poured some lube between John's arse cheeks, then let his hand slide down them, slicking all the way down to John's balls. He brought his hand back up and then turned it, pushing two fingers inside him. Sherlock moaned as his cock jerked in anticipation. He fucked John with his fingers a few times, stretching him. Then he pulled his hand back, struggling to open the condom with slippery fingers. He finally freed it from the packet and rolled it on, quickly pushing into John. He called out loudly, not words, just sounds, and began pumping into John's tightness. It already felt so good. Sherlock always wanted to feel this good.

"Oh god," John moaned as he felt Sherlock's fingers opening him. "Sherlock…" It all happened so quickly. Before he knew it Sherlock was pushing into him and he groaned loudly at the stretch. He touched his own cock, stroking slowly.

Sherlock's heart was pulsing his blood through his body so fast and if he hadn't been high, he'd have been worried. But he was high -- he didn't worry when he was high, he just felt whatever his body was feeling. And it was good and urgent and Sherlock wanted it to last forever but it was too late and soon he was coming, jerking into John, gripping the bones of John's hips. He slumped against John's back but then forced himself up, taking off the condom and dropping to the bed again. He turned his body away from John and could feel his mind starting to shut down.

Then he heard John's breathing. It was heavy and it felt like it was shaking the room. Why was John doing that? "John," the word fell out of Sherlock's mouth.

When Sherlock pulled out John gasped softly and lowered himself onto the bed. He was still hard, but he was so confused about what was happening and what was right. No. He knew it wasn’t right. The confusion was because he was doing it anyway -- he wanted to keep doing it. He looked over at Sherlock to see if he was okay.

"Did you come?" Sherlock heard himself say.

John shook his head. "No," he whispered.

"Do it now," Sherlock said. He was still on his side so he couldn't see John's face.

John gazed at the back of his head. "Will you help me?" he asked, reaching down to stroke himself softly.

"I just want to hear you," Sherlock mumbled.

John closed his eyes and imagined what they were doing before, stroking faster. He was panting, moaning softly, the movement and sounds filling the room. It wasn't too much longer before he gasped and moaned Sherlock's name softly, coming into his hand.

The sounds that entered Sherlock's ears were like beautiful music filling Sherlock's head with colours. The room felt full of pleasure again, it was hot and sweaty and Sherlock's heart pounded. Now his cock was aching again, his body was aching with a need for that pleasure to be in him again. He turned over quickly and moved over John, straddling him. He grabbed John's hand and wrapped it around Sherlock's hard cock. "Don't talk," he said and lifted both of his arms to lean his upper body against the wall behind the headboard. "Just do it."

John looked up Sherlock's body -- he was so sexy -- and he started moving his hand quickly. His eyes roamed all over Sherlock's torso and face, taking every inch, in before lowering them to watch his hand.

Sherlock's body couldn't take much more. It rocked against John's hand and he dropped one of his own hands to press against the side of John's head. And then he was coming, panting, making sounds and starting to close down. He dropped to the side, falling onto the bed. "Sleep," he slurred and then sleep was there, as if it was answering his call.

John closed his eyes as Sherlock finished, feeling everything spill out onto his chest, and just as quickly Sherlock was rolling off of him and sleeping again. John ran his hands through his own hair before getting up. He tucked Sherlock in and left, going to clean himself up before settling on the sofa again. He curled up and played the night over and over. He was crying softly, the rational voice in his head cruelly tearing him apart for enabling this. It wasn’t love.

Sherlock slept for almost twenty four hours. He might have dreamed but even his sleeping mind was blurry now. He might have heard John come into his room. He might have heard John's voice. He didn't even worry about whether or not John was searching his room -- he wouldn't find whatever he thought he was looking for. He drifted in and out but mostly out.


	3. The Fall

Days started passing by in quiet loneliness. John made meals each day, always making more in case Sherlock got up and wanted to have anything. But he never came out. When it got late, he went to check in with him. "Sherlock? There's food and tea if you want. I'm sleeping on the sofa if you need anything," John said.

Sherlock didn't respond. He waited until he couldn't hear the television and then moved to unlock the box in his wardrobe. He wondered when this would end, but had to trust that he'd know when the time was right. Surely something would happen to stop this bad spell, and things could go back to normal. He wondered if John would ever say anything about what was going on. He hoped he wouldn't -- he hoped when this was over, they'd both just delete it from their brains.

But until it was over, Sherlock would take care of it as he always did. It freed him from the frenzied mess in his brain and then -- even when he'd told himself not to do it -- he'd call John into his room and everything would bring him pleasure until it was over and he was out. And eventually he'd wake up and feel sick in his brain and his heart and his body, and his need to escape that sickness led him right back into the cycle. It just kept happening and the few times during the week Sherlock saw John outside his room -- when he dragged himself to the bathroom or to get water -- they barely spoke and never about what was happening.

The week that followed was one of the hardest of John's life, which was saying quite a bit considering everything he had been through. It didn't take him long to realise that his efforts on the sofa were wasted. Whatever Sherlock had bought, he was keeping somewhere in his room because he never left the flat, and yet every night he was getting high and calling for John. It was always the same. No talking, no intimacy, barely any touching. Sometimes it was hard and fast, other times slow, but never was it face to face.

The worst of it all was that John wanted it. He wanted Sherlock so much that he eagerly waited to hear Sherlock call for him. And he would indulge in the pleasure and then he would be filled with guilt that he was letting this continue. He was supposed to be calling Mycroft about this, he was supposed to be getting Sherlock help. But every night he checked Sherlock's pupils and his pulse and he was always fine so John pretended that it was all okay, that maybe this would be the last time.

_If you really loved him you would get him help._ That was the thought that plagued him every night as he tried to fall asleep. 

On Saturday night John decided he was going to sleep in his room. The sofa was hell on his shoulder, and he was always so stiff in the morning. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere. Like every other day, John made food and he made tea and he left a bit out for Sherlock in case he came out of his room. It was odd to miss someone so much when you were not only living with them but having sex with them. When he went up to bed that night, he vowed that if Sherlock got high tonight, he'd call Mycroft. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock got hurt. John was his only friend and he really did love Sherlock. It was time to stop being selfish.

Sherlock sat on the floor outside his wardrobe. That was it. That was all he had. When he'd seen that it was almost gone, he should have used restraint. But instead he did more than usual. He did it all. He felt angry. He sat there waiting until the anger in his veins dissipated and was replaced by the drug and his desire. He started yelling John's name.

John sat up quickly and put on his dressing gown, making his way down to Sherlock's room. "Stop shouting --" John cut off when he saw Sherlock sitting on the floor. For the first time since all of this started his eyes were a bit bloodshot in the corners. "How much, Sherlock?" he asked, closing the door behind him. He bit his lip as guilt twisted his stomach. "Just . . . come lie down. I need to call your brother."

"Don't you fucking dare," Sherlock said. "Help me up," he added less harshly.

"You need help," John said as he pulled Sherlock to his feet. He tried to guide him into bed. "You're going to kill yourself. I should have called from the start."

Sherlock tried to steady himself. "I do need help," he mumbled. "Help me . . ." he said, pushing his hand inside his pajama bottoms as he started to stroke himself.

John shook his head. "I can't . . . I'm not doing that anymore. You need proper help, Sherlock." He backed away from him and turned for the door. He needed to call Mycroft. 

Before John could leave the room, Sherlock was after him. He pushed John against the door and pulled at his pajama bottoms. Sherlock's mind was empty except for an urgency that had now engulfed his whole body. He stepped close and slipped his hand between John's legs. "You're making me do this," he growled against John's ear and then tried to pull down his own pajamas. But he lost his balance and stumbled a little. All of a sudden the noises returned to his brain -- the words and pictures, a thousand sounds. No, this wasn't supposed to happen. He'd done what was supposed to make it stop. He dropped down onto his knees and tried to speak but couldn't distinguish his voice from all the noise in his brain. He started to fall back and then everything went black. Everything was gone. Sherlock was gone.

John couldn't make sense of anything -- it had happened in seconds. His vision blurred when he was pushed against the door, and then Sherlock was forcing his clothes off. John tried to push him off but there was no need -- Sherlock was falling. "No," John whispered too late, dropping down and feeling for a pulse. It was barely there. Sherlock's eyes were glazed and his pupils unresponsive to light. John's hands were shaking so badly, he could barely find his phone and call for an ambulance.

In all of the commotion, Mrs Hudson came out in time to see John following the medics to the ambulance. He had left the flat in his pajamas, not wanting to let Sherlock out of his sight. He shouted at her to call Mycroft, climbing into the back with Sherlock. He was still on his pajamas but he didn't care. "Sherlock please . . . please don't die . . ." He was crying hard, barely breathing as he watched them start an IV. John told them about the drugs, holding tightly onto Sherlock's hand. At the hospital they kept John in the waiting room, so he paced, taking shuddering breaths and trying to calm down. It was all John's fault. Sherlock was right. 

And then Mycroft was there, demanding to know what happened. John explained about the drugs and how he'd had been hoping he would stop on his own. Mycroft wanted to know why John hadn't called right away, but John only started crying harder again. Mycroft shook his head, muttering how he was disappointed in John for getting involved in all that. It made John feel worse -- if Mycroft knew about the sex, it meant it was part of what Sherlock always did. It had nothing to do with John, which made John feel even more used and even guiltier for falling into it. Mycroft was allowed back to see Sherlock, allowed to go where John couldn't. 

It seemed like hours passed. John paced the whole time, alternating between anger and worry and guilt. Eventually Mycroft came out and told John that he was taking Sherlock away so he could get some help. He gave John money for a cab, which was impossible to get given the state of dress he was in. He ended up walking the whole way back, crying the entire time. When he got into the flat Mrs. Hudson was on him, shouting about how he should have seen signs. And then she saw John's face and she pulled him into a hug where he sobbed for a long time. He had seen signs -- much more than signs -- and he had done nothing. 

He had been selfish and now Sherlock was sick. Sherlock almost died because of him. He went into Sherlock's room and curled under his covers, crying until he was too exhausted to stay up any longer. When he woke up he texted Mycroft, but he didn't get an answer.

Mrs Hudson brought him tea and food and encouraging words but John ignored all of it. He didn't want anything but Sherlock home safe, even if that meant that John was going to have to move out. Mycroft would want him gone for sure and Sherlock was bound to hate him. After everything they did together, after John let it continue, Sherlock wouldn't want to come home to him. If Sherlock came home.


	4. White

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he no longer saw black. Everything was white. He wondered if he was dead but then realised he was alive and in the hospital. He slowly turned his head and saw himself attached to a machine. A nurse came in and said, "Back among the living?" She smiled and adjusted something and then left the room.

Sherlock didn't want to be among the living. He didn't want to be here.

A doctor entered the room. She was carrying a folder. She checked his vitals and said, "Do you know why you are here, Mr Holmes?"

"I can guess," Sherlock mumbled, staring at the white walls.

"You overdosed. Do you remember anything about the night you came in?" she asked, scribbling on a piece of paper.

Sherlock thought about it. He didn't.

"That's normal," she said. "A shame -- perhaps if addicts remembered, they wouldn't continue to make such bad choices."  
  
"When can I go home?" Sherlock asked, coughing a bit as he spoke.

She poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the table at the end of the bed. She handed it to him. "If you stay stabilized, you might leave here tomorrow but it's not up to me if you go home."  
  
Mycroft, Sherlock thought. Of course.

"Your brother will pick you up," she said. "He wanted me to tell you there's a man sitting outside the door so you needn't bother trying to leave."  
  
"Is there a man out there?" Sherlock asked.

She glanced towards the door. "There are men all over the hospital," she said. "Just rest. I won't discharge you until I know you're safe. Don't make me think you're not." She turned and left.

Sherlock closed his eyes again but even with his eyes closed, all he could see was white.


	5. Mycroft Gets Involved

John was in his own room, contemplating packing, when his phone vibrated.

_Sherlock is ready to leave the hospital. I need to speak to you. MH_

John sat down on his bed. It had been over a week already, and it was such good news -- knowing that Sherlock was alive and well -- that John started crying all over again.

He wiped at his eyes and sent a message back.

_Okay. I'm at home. -JW_

_I know. I'm at the door. MH_

John looked at his bedroom door and shook his head, wiping his eyes hard again before going down to let Mycroft in.

When John opened the door, Mycroft saw his red eyes but didn't acknowledge them. He moved in to the sitting room. "Sit down please, John," he said. He remained standing. 

"I know I messed up," John said. "I won't . . . I'll leave if I have to. I just . . . I want him to be safe." He sat on the edge of the sofa, fiddling with his fingers.

Mycroft did not respond. Instead he asked, "Do you remember the first day you and I met?"

"Of course I do."

"I told you I worry about Sherlock constantly, do you remember? And now you know why," Mycroft said. "But you decided to get involved. And now you've spent the last few weeks worrying about him as well. Has it been worth it -- your association -- has it been worth the feelings you've had these last few weeks?" He looked down at John. "Think carefully."

"Yes," John said without needing to think about it. "The good times we've had . . . the fact that I have known him and was able to call him my friend . . . of course it's been worth it. I want him to be safe and happy. I'll do whatever I need to do."

"But you didn't, did you?" Mycroft moved around the room, stopping at Sherlock' desk and looking at the papers spread across it. "I care about Sherlock," he continued. "I want him to be well. I find out he's asked a doctor to move in with him. A medical doctor, who -- for whatever reason -- seems quite . . . smitten with him. Surely, I thought, a man who has taken the Hippocratic Oath and who also cares about Sherlock would help keep my brother well. But you didn't, Doctor Watson, you didn't. And do you know why you failed so miserably?"

John's eyes started burning again and he refused to look at Mycroft. He felt like a child. "I-I was selfish," he said quietly.

"No. You failed because addicts are selfish, and Sherlock is an addict," Mycroft said. "Yes, he has a certain charm and yes, I know you care about him. Those two things, I'm afraid, were your downfall." He moved back towards the sofa. "I don't know what set him off this time -- I doubt he even knows. But whatever made him seek out the drugs was stronger than anything else in the world. Don't take it personally -- it's not a nice feeling, but trust me, you get used to it." He paused for a moment. "He obviously cares about you, John, but he's selfish at the best of times, and when he's using, he can be cruel. I don't know what he remembers but I know he'd be ashamed of his behaviour. But you remember it all, I'm sure. And I can't let Sherlock return to this flat unless I'm sure you understand things. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

John nodded. "This will never happen again. I can promise that," he said.

"No, you can't, John," Mycroft said. He sat down in Sherlock's chair. "I don't know what went on in this flat before, but I am pretty sure I know what went on while he was using. I'm sorry, John…." For the first time there seemed to be a bit of compassion behind his voice. "I don't know his feelings for you, but I know those actions were due to the drugs. But you -- you weren't using drugs. I don't know if you still . . . desire him in that way, and I don't doubt you think that that isn't my business. But Sherlock is my business and if he returns to this flat, the only thing that matters is his recovery. Can you respect that?"

John nodded. Having watched Sherlock almost die had really snapped him out of his selfishness. He was still ashamed that that’s what it had taken. That would never happen again. "I can."

"There will need to be some rules, I'm afraid," Mycroft said. "Lestrade will come by and sweep the flat. Sherlock will wear a tag and he'll be tested every couple days. You'll need to keep him away from things that might be triggers. This includes boredom. But don't replace those things with . . . other things that could be problematic. I'll be checking in every day -- I fear we'll be spending a bit more time together, Doctor Watson. But since we both want the same thing, I'm sure that won't be a problem, will it?"

John shook his head. "I'll make sure he doesn't use again," he promised. "All of that is fine."

"I'll send Lestrade in the morning," Mycroft said. "I'm trusting you with his care. Please do not disappoint me, but remember that you need to look after yourself as well." He moved to the door and then he was gone.

John stood up and took a couple steps towards the door. He tried to imagine Sherlock coming up the stairs, coming home. As much as he wanted it, he had no idea what it'd be like. 

So he got to work. He cleaned up the kitchen and straightened the sitting room, moving the blanket he'd been using on the sofa back into his room. Then he went into Sherlock's room and put new sheets on the bed, opening the window for a little while to let some fresh air in. He considered sleeping in Sherlock's room again, but he didn't want the sheets to smell like him. He didn't want to leave a trigger that might make Sherlock upset. 

That night John went back up to his own room and he lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling and making a mental plan about what was going to happen from now on. He still had that list of cases they could go work on, but he needed to think of things they could do in the flat to keep Sherlock's mind occupied. Eventually he fell asleep, dreaming about them working so many cases in a row that they were both wasting away from hunger. He woke up feeling bad, and then noticed someone was pounding on the door.  

John put on his dressing gown and went down to answer, finding Lestrade and a couple officers with him. John flushed lightly as he let them in, wondering how much Mycroft had told Greg. "He kept it in his room," he said, pointing to the door. That's where they started. 

"How are you holding up?" Lestrade asked. 

John shrugged. "I just want him to come home and be healthy again."

Lestrade nodded. "I hope this is the worst you ever see him," he said, and John could tell by his tone he had seen Sherlock a lot worse and that scared him. It made him feel even worse about letting it go on. "He says he knows his limits but once he'd high he's not really thinking," Greg said. "And a Sherlock Holmes who isn't thinking is not a good one." He tried to smile a little.

John flushed again and nodded. It took three hours for them to search the entire flat. Lestrade said they would be back again soon, but he didn't give a specific date. John went up to his room and put proper clothes on before coming back down to start the kettle. Out of habit he grabbed two mugs but he left it out, hoping it was a sign that Sherlock was on his way. 


	6. Sherlock's Consequences

At the hospital, Sherlock was still spending most of his time asleep which was fine with him. He didn't want to think about what he must have done; he didn't want to remember. The nurses and doctors kept a close eye on him, which he found annoying, but which he knew was probably nothing compared to what his brother would be doing once he left this place. He wondered about John, about where he'd gone and how much he must hate Sherlock now. He didn't want to think of those things so he tried to go back to sleep.

This time when Sherlock opened his eyes, he saw the doctor's face and a shape behind it. The shape was Mycroft. They were both speaking but not to Sherlock, so he closed his eyes again. When he opened them again, just the shape was there. 

"Your body is clean," Mycroft said.

It wasn't a question really so Sherlock didn't answer.

"Do you know why this happened?" Mycroft asked. "Why this bad spell began?"

Sherlock didn't. He really didn't. But the way Mycroft said it, it almost felt like he knew, like it was a riddle and when Sherlock guessed, Mycroft would reveal the correct answer. "No," Sherlock finally said.

"And when it began . . . did you do what you were supposed to do?"  
  
"No," Sherlock said, looking down at his body under the white blankets, looking anywhere except at Mycroft. "I thought it'd be different this time."

"No, you didn't, Sherlock," Mycroft. "You're lying and you know it. You didn't think it'd be any different because you didn't think." He stepped closer to the bed so Sherlock could not avoid seeing him. "One word, Sherlock," he said in a softer voice. "One word was all you had to text me and I would have taken care of everything, no questions asked. Why did you go to rehab, why did we set up plans if you were just going to ignore all the safety measures we had in place?"

"John would have asked questions," Sherlock mumbled.

"Don't pretend that's why you didn't contact me," Mycroft said, his voice angry. "He never saw your phone and he wouldn't have known what that word meant. We could have told him it was a case or family business . . . or we could have told him the truth. There were safety measures in place, Sherlock…." His voice trailed and he turned away for a moment to collect himself. He did care about Sherlock and he hated all this.

"Where's John gone?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Why do you ask? What's it matter? He served his purpose, did he not?" Mycroft asked without turning around.

"John's different," Sherlock said feebly.

"So I thought, Sherlock, so I thought," Mycroft said and then turned to face him again. "And yet you treated him exactly the same."

Sherlock's face went red and hot, and he wanted to run away from the room and Mycroft's shape and all that whiteness and shame. It was as overpowering as the noise that he'd been trying to escape and there was nothing he could take to make it stop. He felt water spill from his eyes, and he moved his hand to hold his stomach.

Mycroft watched him suffer. All of his life he'd tried to keep his brother from suffering, even when Sherlock hated him for it. But now Mycroft realised the mistake he'd made.

"You don't have to tell me where he is, just tell me he's okay," Sherlock whispered.

"I can't do that, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He took a step back and his voice changed. "The doctor says you're ready to leave. Do you think you are?" he asked.

"Am I going to rehab?" Sherlock asked.

"What'd be the use of that? You'd just ignore their advice and complain the whole time," Mycroft said. "And besides, where you're going is much, much worse than rehab."  
  
"Jail?" Sherlock asked, pushing himself up a bit on the bed.

"I suppose you could call it that."  
  
"Mycroft, I --"

"Your own personal jail would be a better phrase, I think," Mycroft continued. "You'll be confined to Baker Street, I'm afraid -- unable to go further than a few meters from it." He pulled the electronic tag from his pocket and dropped it on the bed. "The flat is obviously clean and it will stay that way. Both it and your body will be regularly checked."

Sherlock didn't know whether or not to believe him -- this seemed like a trick. Why would Mycroft send him home with just the threat of drug tests and searches? Did Mycroft really trust Sherlock to be on his own?

"And you'll be staying with me?" Sherlock asked, thinking that must be the catch.

"Oh no," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "That would drive me insane."

"I'll be on my own?"

"Of course not," Mycroft said. "Don't you see, Sherlock? You've destroyed the faith I had in you. I can't let you be on your own."

Sherlock's face burned again and his stomach churned. Why did those words hurt so much? "Who?" he asked quietly.

"John Watson, of course," Mycroft said.

"What?" Sherlock said, leaning forward. "That's your plan for me -- that's how you get me back? Force me to live with someone who hates me? So you and he have worked out some revenge scenario where you can both take out your anger at me in your own special ways?" Sherlock's heart was pounding quickly and the noise from the machine changed.

"Oh no, Sherlock, it's much, much worse than that," Mycroft said, holding the pause until the silence forced Sherlock to look him in the eye. "John Watson doesn't hate you. He _loves_ you. That's what your treatment is. This time I won't clean up your messes. You're going to go home and face what you've done. You are going to go home to the person who loves you and who you have treated so very badly and you are going to take whatever comes your way."  
  
"I'll go to rehab," Sherlock said. "I'll go and I'll listen and I'll follow every rule."  
  
"No, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "You're going to go home and take responsibility for what you've done." He put the ankle tag back in his pocket. "I've got paperwork to sort. And then we'll leave." He disappeared from the room.

The whiteness was all Sherlock saw and his eyes burned and then he was crying.


	7. The Rules

John sat on the sofa and tried not to text Mycroft. He wished he knew exactly when Sherlock was coming. He turned on the news and knew that he couldn't do anything but wait.

A nurse came into Sherlock's room carrying a folder and a plastic bag. "Are you all right?" she asked, moving over to check on him.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, wiping his hands over his face. "I need to . . . I'm leaving," he said, lifting his hand for help.

The nurse checked Sherlock once more and then detached him from the machine. "Can you get yourself dressed?" she asked, handing him the bag with clean clothes.

"Yes," he said. He thought his voice would be irritated, but it wasn't. It wasn't anything at all.

She left the room and Sherlock got dressed. He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Then he splashed water on his face and ran his hands through his hair. He did all of this without looking in the mirror once. He didn't want to see himself.

He moved back to the bed and waited.

Mycroft returned and together they went downstairs to the car. They rode in silence to Baker Street. Mycroft lifted his case, got out, and opened the door for Sherlock and they both walked inside up to the flat. Sherlock stood at the door stupidly so Mycroft stepped in front of him and knocked.

John got up quickly and pulled open the door. When he saw Sherlock, it took everything in him not to collapse in relief. "Um . . .come in," he said quietly, moving aside. "I'll start the kettle," he said. He couldn't make himself ask anything about his treatment. He just wanted things to be okay. 

Mycroft and Sherlock stepped in. "Sit down, Sherlock," Mycroft said.

Sherlock couldn't look at John. He didn't even want to look at the flat. He sat down in his chair. Mycroft sat on the sofa across from him. This was torture.

When John brought the mugs out on a tray, they each took one. Then Mycroft said, "Sherlock has some rules he'll need to follow, John, and I'd like to make you aware of them."

Sherlock looked down at the floor.

Mycroft took out the ankle bracelet and tossed it over to Sherlock. "This stays on," he said, nodding for Sherlock to put it on his leg. "There's a monitor in this flat. Don't bother asking John where it is, he doesn't know. It will alert if you stray from your confinement. Do not go past the front step of the building." He took a sip of tea. "This flat is clean. There will be no drugs in this flat. To ensure none enter, Lestrade will stop by at inconvenient and unannouced times. You will be tested every three days. Be prepared to piss in a cup." He turned to John and said, "Would you check that that thing's on securely?" he asked him, nodding to Sherlock's tag.

John nodded. He bent down besides Sherlock and then glanced up at him. "Are you feeling okay?" he asked softly.

Mycroft watched John and then looked at Sherlock who said nothing. "More importantly, John, are you feeling okay?" Mycroft said. "Can you tell us, please? Have you felt happy the last few weeks?" He watched Sherlock.

John looked at Mycroft for a moment and then looked at Sherlock, who looked like he wanted to jump from the roof. John wasn't going to help Mycroft torture Sherlock. "I'm just happy Sherlock is better and home," he said quietly.

"Sherlock's home, John, but he's not better," Mycroft said. "It's quite important that you tell the truth. Were you happy living with here with Sherlock before all this happened? I think it'd be good for him to know."

"Of course," John said. "I'm still happy living with him."

"Then why were you crying when I came over yesterday?"

John flushed. "I was worried . . . about Sherlock."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock. "It doesn't feel nice, does it, to care and then be so worried?" He let it sit in the air before looking back at John. He opened the case and took out an envelope. "Sherlock needs to stay busy. Here are a few projects to work on and Lestrade will also be in touch. You may accept cases via your blog but only if they allow him to do his work from the flat. Any outside work must be avoided or done by you, John. The busier he can be, though, the better. That's usually the case, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft. Was he really making him do this? "Yes," he said quietly.

Mycroft turned his body to John. "Sherlock has a plan in place to help him when he feels a spell coming on. Unfortunately, he chose to abandon that plan. However, the plan still stands. If he gets in trouble --"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, sitting up in his chair.

His brother ignored him. "If he gets in trouble, he and I have a code. If I see the special word, I come help him. He can say it or text or even write it on a piece of paper and hold it up in front of my face. But if the word appears, that means it's urgent." Despite the fact that he was still speaking to John, Mycroft looked directly at Sherlock. "You are now part of that plan, John. You will need to know the special word." He swallowed. "What's the word, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tried to stare back at his brother, but couldn't. "Redbeard," he said, looking away.

Mycroft still stared at Sherlock. "If you hear or see that word, John, you call me. Since he cannot be trusted." Then he turned back to John. "Do you know what will happen if Sherlock breaks one of these rules?"

"You'll hold me responsible," John said quietly.

"No, John," Mycroft said. "If Sherlock breaks the rules, you will not be responsible. Sherlock will be responsible. If Sherlock breaks the rules, you should call 999 or me or smash everything in the flat or walk out that door forever. I doubt you'll do any of those, though, because if Sherlock breaks the rules, your heart will break again, won't it? So promise me this, don't turn away from him when it happens. Make him stand there and watch your heart break again." He didn't wait for a response. He reached into his case. "Cigarettes are permissible, if you need them," he said setting a few packets on the table. "If John doesn't want them in the flat, remember, don't move past the front step." He stood up. "Gentlemen," he said and moved to the door. "I'll be back before you know it," he added and then he was gone.


	8. Sherlock Fails

John flushed as he watched Mycroft leave, and then he found it hard to breath being alone with Sherlock for the first time in so long. He sipped at his tea, not knowing what to say.

Sherlock wanted to get up from the chair and go hide in his room but even there, he wouldn't be able to escape the bad feelings. He worried that there'd be evidence all over the room of what he'd done. He took a sip of tea and then a deep breath. "John," he said, breaking the silence. "I'm sorry, all right?"

"I'm sorry too," John said, wondering if he remembered what they had done. Wondering if Sherlock remembered how John had let it go on.

Sherlock looked over at John finally. "For what?" he said, almost angrily. "What exactly are you saying sorry for?"

"For . . . for not helping sooner," he said, fully expecting Sherlock's tone. He had been selfish, an awful friend, and now he was reminding Sherlock of it every time Sherlock looked at him

"Why didn't you?" Sherlock asked, no longer looking at John.

"I-I got caught up in everything. I'm so sorry," he said, staring at his mug.

"Were you high? Drunk, I mean? Is that why?" Sherlock asked. He knew the answer but he asked on the slight chance -- if John had been drinking, they could blame that and both of them would feel better.

"No," John murmured. "I just . . . I was selfish. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"You thought I'd stop? You wanted to be a hero -- is that what you wanted?"

"No. If I wanted that, I would have stopped you. I would have called your brother the first night."

"I don't understand, John," Sherlock said. "I don't understand what you mean."

"I'd . . . I'd wanted you like that before and then you wanted me too, and I didn't want that to stop. . ." John rubbed his face hard. He sounded like an idiot who'd ruined everything.

Sherlock turned his head sharply away from John. "I didn't know, John," he said. "I'm not good at seeing those things . . . I didn't know and now you think . . ." He pushed himself up off the chair. "I can't talk," he said and moved quickly to his room but he stopped. He wasn't ready to face that yet. Instead he turned and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

John got up and followed him quickly. "Don't run away from me," he said, knocking on the door. "Now I think what, Sherlock? Tell me so we can fix this."

Sherlock got into the bath and pulled the shower curtain shut. He wished he had locked the door. "I can't talk," he called. He thought about what he was doing and he hated Mycroft for putting him in this situation.

John leaned his forehead on the door. "Sherlock, please," he begged softly. "It's just me. You can talk to me." John looked at the door and knew he didn't deserve to say that anymore, but he was going to try it anyways. 

"I know what I did to you, John," Sherlock said. "I . . . You shouldn't have let me."

"I know I shouldn't have. I know, Sherlock. I'm sorry," John said. "But I . . . you didn't force me to do anything so please . . . " He trailed off because he didn't know how to finish that. How could he tell Sherlock not to feel bad? Even John couldn't stop feeling bad. He wished they could go back to how they were before. 

"Why did you let me?" Sherlock called.

"I wanted to as well," John said, not raising his voice.

None of this made sense to Sherlock. He couldn't make sense of what John was saying. Had John tricked him -- had John been trying to make Sherlock want him? Is that what had set the bad spell off in the first place? It was too confusing. "Go away, John," Sherlock said. "I can't talk."

John sighed and sank down so he was sitting on the floor in front of the bathroom. "I am not going anywhere," he said. "If nothing else, you are my friend and I just want us to be okay again. You don't have to talk right now. But I am not leaving."

"I didn't know, John," Sherlock said. "I didn't know you wanted . . . more." He heard the words coming out -- they were true. But that made it worse, didn't it? Because Sherlock had wanted it anyway -- he hadn't even thought about what John wanted. That sounded worse. He didn't know what to think about himself or about John.

"I should have said something sooner, but you had said you didn't do relationships and I didn't want to make things hard for us." John leaned back against the door.

"That's what you want?" Sherlock asked. "You liked it when I was high?" He still couldn't make sense of it.

"No. I hated that you were getting high and I hated . . . I didn't like that that was the only time you wanted me that way," John admitted. "But I was selfish and I took it anyways. I'm sorry."

"Jesus, John," Sherlock said. He hated the words John was saying. They made Sherlock feel horrible. Because what Sherlock did was horrible. He couldn't pretend it wasn't. "Stop saying you were selfish," he said feebly. "Stop saying sorry." He curled up, wrapping his arms around his legs.

"But I was. You're my best friend. I-I love you. And I saw you hurting yourself and I didn't do anything about it." John was mumbling now, his shame settling heavier in his chest. "You could have died and it would have been my fault."

"No, none of this was your fault, John. You've . . . you've only been good -- all the time you've been here, you've been nothing but good and I -- I don't know why . . . I don't know why you're so good and why I did something so bad." 

"Taking drugs was bad, Sherlock. Nothing else. I wanted to -- too much, it seems."

"Stop it!" Sherlock shouted. "It was all bad -- John, I used you. It's worse, not better, that you wanted me. I used you -- I hate that I did and I wish I could take it back, but stop pretending…" He swallowed. "It wasn't your fault."

John leaned against the door again. "I'm not pretending, Sherlock. I forgive you, okay? Do you . . .can you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," Sherlock said. "Stop saying that."  
  
John gazed at the door, amazed that Sherlock wasn't more upset about what John had done. "Will you please come out?"

"I don't want to go in _there_ ," Sherlock said. "And besides, I don't want to see you . . ." he added a little more quietly.

"We don't have to go into your room. And I can understand that. I can turn my chair or whatever you want."

"John," Sherlock said. He realised he'd missed saying John's name. He'd missed John so much and just wished they could back to how it was. But Sherlock had ruined all that and now he wondered if he'd ever even really known John. The John he knew wouldn't let someone be cruel like . . . and then Sherlock caught himself. Was he still trying to hold John responsible? Sherlock sat up a little and cleared his throat. "I need you to do something before I come out."

"What is it?" John asked. He didn't want to agree right away because he didn't want Sherlock to ask him to leave.

"I need you . . . to know I was wrong. To say it. To say it and mean it," Sherlock said.

"I can't. Not about what you want me to say it about," John said. "You were wrong to start taking drugs again."

Sherlock exhaled in frustration. "Molly," Sherlock said suddenly. "Molly calls you and says she loves a man who never shows her any affection and then he gets high and has sex with her and it's . . ." Sherlock wished he didn't remember but he did. " . . . it's not kind. Would you tell Molly it's her fault? Would you tell her that man was right?"

"You did show me affection -- asking my opinion on things you already know about, taking me on cases with you, letting me nag you." He smiled softly and touched the door. "And anyways, I wanted it, Sherlock. I wanted it and I took advantage of you when you were out of your senses."

"You liar," Sherlock called. "So you'd tell Molly to apologise to the man? Would you, John?"

John's eyes burned as when he blinked rapidly tears fell down his cheeks that he didn't bother wiping away. "No," he admitted. "But it's not Molly. It's me."

"Who are you, John? Who are you? Someone who lets himself be used? That's not you, John. That's not my John Watson," Sherlock could feel his voice cracking. "I am a user, John, but you're good. I wanted our friendship to make me . . . better and instead it's . . . instead I've ruined everything. I've ruined you." He put his head in his hands and started crying.

John tried the handle of the door and found it wasn't locked. He pushed the door open and went into the bathroom, kneeling in front of Sherlock and touching his hands softly. "You were wrong," he whispered. "But I forgive you."

Sherlock wiped his face and made himself look at John. "Say it again," he said. "I need to see that you really believe it."

John held his gaze for a long time. "You were wrong," he said quietly. "But I forgive you."

Sherlock looked at John closely. "But why would you?" he asked.

John touched his hands again. "Because I love you," he said simply.

"But why would you, John?" Sherlock said. "I didn't deserve it before and god, I don't deserve it now." He rubbed his face again.

"You did deserve it before," John said. He sat back on his heels. "But I know you don't want that kind of relationship and I am okay with us being friends, Sherlock." He looked down at his hands as he fiddled with his own fingers.

"Stop it, John," Sherlock said, looking up. "Just stop being . . . a martyr. I liked the way you were before . . . be him."

"How was I before?" John asked.

"You were just you," Sherlock said. He shifted his legs a little. "I've got to get out of here . . . I don't feel well." He pushed his arm against the wall to try to stand up.

John stood up quickly and helped Sherlock to his feet. "Do you need anything? What can I get you?"

"I just need to move for a minute and then maybe lie down," Sherlock said. He stepped carefully out of the bath. He was standing in front of John, looking at him for a minute. What happened flashed in his mind -- he remembered feeling good and wondered why it took the drugs to make him want that, when the drugs would also guarantee that everything would be ruined. He took a step away, moving into the kitchen to get some water and then he moved to the sofa and laid down.

John followed him into the kitchen and started the kettle for him. When it was done, he joined Sherlock, putting his on the coffee table before sitting in his chair.

"Do you think one of us should move out?" Sherlock asked. He'd been staring at the ceiling but now he closed his eyes.

"I don't want to. I don't want either of us to go. Can't we be friends? Like before?" John asked.

"I don't know, John," Sherlock said. He sat up and drank some water and then lay back down again. "How can we? We can't pretend it didn't happened. Won't you be worried . . ."

"You won't use again," John said. He knew that for sure if he didn't know anything else. 

"You can't watch me forever," Sherlock said. "What if I do? What then?"

"You won't," John said again. 

"Wait a minute," Sherlock said. "Have you and Mycroft worked this out? Is this part of some plan of his?"

"You heard everything I heard," John said. "He came here before you were brought home and he asked me to help look after you."

Sherlock closed his eyes again. "Do you think about it?" he asked more softly.

John looked over at him. "Yeah," he admitted. "I can't stop thinking about it. It makes me feel a lot of different things. Mostly guilt but that's expected I suppose."

"And did Mycroft tell you to be a doormat?" Sherlock mumbled without turning his head. "Stop being guilty for nothing."

"No, he didn't tell me that. But I think leaving would be more 'doormat' than my staying here. I like what we had before and I am not going to give it up because you made poor choices." John said and looked down at his hands for a moment before looking up at Sherlock again. He was still turned away. "If you want me to leave then you look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me here." 

Sherlock lay there for a moment. Both of them remembered. Both of them thought about it. He couldn't see how they'd ever get past it -- he couldn't imagine them having tea or watching telly or going on cases with the memory of what happened always being there, always reminding them how horrible Sherlock had been. It was easier when it all just went away, when he could delete it all and pretend it'd never happened. That's what he wanted to do: delete what he'd done. He turned his head and looked at John. "I don't want you here," he said. 

John's breath stopped in his chest. His eyes stayed fixed on Sherlock's for a moment before he couldn't anymore -- it hurt like a knife going through him. "Fine," he said. He went to the kitchen and put his mug in the sink. "That's fine." He came back to the sitting room, he put his coat on, and he left the flat. He was angry and his eyes were burning but he refused to cry anymore. He was stomping down the street in his anger, his hands stuffed into his pockets.


	9. Sherlock Needs Mycroft

Sherlock lay there until he heard the door close downstairs and then he sat up. He hadn't really wanted John to leave -- he just wanted the bad feelings and memories gone -- but now John was gone, too. Sherlock took a few deep breaths, worried that all this confusion would make the noise in his head start. He glanced at his bedroom door, but it didn't matter -- the flat was clean and besides using again would only make things better for a few hours and then they'd be a thousand times worse. He knew that. He did. He got his phone and rang Mycroft.

"I was right," Sherlock said when Mycroft answered.

"I was expecting a call but not so soon," Mycroft said. "And what were you right about, Sherlock?"

"John hates me," Sherlock said.

"No, he doesn't, Sherlock," Mycroft said impatiently. "You want him to hate you. It'd be easier for you if he did. But he doesn't."  
  
Sherlock ignored that. "If he doesn't hate me, why did he leave? He just left me -- he just walked out," his loud voice started to crumble a little. "He's gone."

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "What did you do, Sherlock?" he finally said, his voice a mixture of impatience and sadness for his brother who so clearly did not understand.

"I told him to go," Sherlock said feebly.

"Sherlock, use your logic for a moment," Mycroft said. "You wanted him gone so you could delete what you've done and feel better. Is that correct?" He paused. "Have you deleted it?"

"No," Sherlock said even more feebly.

"Do you feel better?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock's silence provided his answer.

"Then is telling John to go the answer to your problem?"

"Make him come back," Sherlock said.

"I don't clean up your messes anymore," Mycroft said.

Neither spoke for a moment. Finally Mycroft asked, "Do you have anything else to say to me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, thought about saying the word that would make Mycroft come get him and take him away. "No," he said and hung up the phone.

Mycroft found John's number and sent a text.

_It is entirely your choice whether or not you return. If you do not intend to, please inform me. Take care. MH_

_I'll go back. I just needed a few minutes. -JW_

John wondered if Mycroft had seen him leave or if Sherlock called Mycroft to tell him that John had left. It didn't matter either way. 

Sherlock sat back down on the sofa and stood up again. He walked up to John's room but didn't open the door. He just stood there for a moment. He closed his eyes and saw pictures of their life before. They flashed through his mind and they were all good. And then he saw that image -- the one he knew he'd never forget. He moved quickly downstairs and over to his desk. He picked up the papers and ripped them in pieces, throwing them around the room. He went to the sink and grabbed John's mug and threw it against the wall. He pulled more glasses from the cupboard and threw them on to the floor. By now he was breathing heavily and he heard his heart pounding in his head and was afraid that soon there'd be more noises in there. He walked to his bedroom, standing outside the door for a moment before pushing it open. He didn't step in. He looked around. John had obviously cleaned it up. It looked nice, safe -- his things, his room, his home. But he couldn't step inside. Because it was also where everything bad had happened. He shut the door and slumped down to the floor. He pulled out his phone.

_I'm sorry, John._

He lay his head on the floor and shut his eyes.

John walked all the way to the park, through the whole trail, and then finally started making his way back to the flat the long way. When he got Sherlock's message he stopped walking for a moment and just stared at it. He wondered for what exactly Sherlock was sorry for -- the drugs, the sex, telling him to leave? It didn't matter. John had forgiven his for the first thing, shared responsibility for the second, and wasn't even going to listen to the third one. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket without answering and headed for the flat again. 

When he walked in he was quiet, slowly climbing the stairs to listen for anything going on upstairs. It was silent. When he came in he looked into the kitchen and gasped. There was broken glass everywhere, including his mug. When he went into the sitting room, he sighed heavily. "Sherlock . . ." he mumbled, hanging his coat. And then he saw Sherlock on the floor in front of his room and his heart stopped. "Sherlock?" He hurried over and fell on the floor beside him, checking his pulse and trying to turn him to look at his face. 

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock said, pulling away and sitting up. "Have you come back?"

"I didn't leave forever. I can't," John said, sitting back a bit and looking at him closely. "You just . . . made me angry. You should go lay down in your bed," he said. 

"Do you hate me?" Sherlock asked softly, partly wanting to hear the word yes.

"No, I don't hate you Sherlock. Come on," John said gently, helping Sherlock up off of the ground. He pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open but waited for Sherlock to make the first step.

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "I can't go in there."

"Sherlock, you need to rest," John said quietly. "The room is clean. I changed the sheets . . . " He trailed off and looked up at him. "You can use mine, if you like."

"I --" Sherlock said. "I don't know, John." He moved away from his door. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"I can go in with you -- just so you can see that it's all the same," John said. "It's going to be okay."

"John," Sherlock exhaled. "What should I do?" he asked in a whisper.

"I want you to be comfortable and safe, Sherlock. The room is clean, I promise. There is also my room, or even the sofa, if you want." John was still holding his arm but he didn't let go. 

"Sofa," Sherlock said. He turned around and saw the mess. He turned back. "God, John," he said. "I've wrecked everything."

"Listen to me, Sherlock. You're getting better, okay? Everything you went through -- it was a lot and it's going to take some time to get better." He reached up and held Sherlock's cheeks, meeting his eyes. "I'm going to take care of you, okay? You need to rest. I will fix all of that, don't worry."

"Why?" he said. "Why do you want to look after someone who didn't look after you?"

"I am looking after the man who fixed my leg. I'm looking after the man that took me on exciting cases and gave my life meaning again. I am looking after someone I love who made a mistake." He let his hands drop to Sherlock's chest and then to his own sides. "It got messy, Sherlock, but we can't keep arguing about that until you're better. One thing at a time, yeah?"

"Will you sit in there with me?" Sherlock said. "Just for a bit."

John nodded, looping his arm with Sherlock's so they could walk in together.

Sherlock stepped in. He looked at his things. He moved over to the bed and laid himself down. He closed his eyes and turned away from John. "Can you sit down?" he asked.

John sat down on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock's feet, looking around and then looking at him. "I'll stay as long as you need."

Sherlock took a few deep breaths. "I must have wanted to, you know," he said softly. "With you, I mean. I just felt good and I wanted to feel good with you, too. I'm sorry."

John looked down at his hands and nodded. "We can talk about it later, okay?" He said quietly, looking around the room again.

"What are we going to talk about then?" Sherlock asked.

John bit his lip and looked down at his hands. "Why did you start using again?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "Something was just off . . . I tried to figure it out, but I couldn't."

John sighed softly. "Why didn't you talk to me?"

"I didn't think you'd understand," Sherlock said. "We're so different . . ."

"I know, but that's never mattered before," John said.

"It felt like it did then," Sherlock said.

"Do you think you can tell me now? I mean, if you ever feel like using again?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. He was pretty sure it was true. "John --" he said.

John looked over at him and waited patiently for the rest.

"How are we going to be now?"

"We're just going to be us. It'll take some time, but we can do it," John said.

"But what are we now? What's 'us' now?"

"What we've always been. Flatmates, friends . . ."

"But we're more now . . . different than before. We can't pretend it didn't happen."

"I know we can't," John said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You should rest and get better from the withdrawal first. After that we can figure out what everything else means, okay?" John shifted on the bed lightly. "Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?" 

"Are you going to sleep here?" Sherlock asked. He wasn't sure what John's answer would be or what he wanted John's answer to be.

John swallowed hard. "If you'd like me to," he said.

"Don't leave yet," Sherlock said, rolling over towards him. "You don't have to stay the whole night if you don't want to."

"I do want to, Sherlock. But I just . . . I don't want to make things any harder."

"How can things be any harder, John?" Sherlock asked. "This has been the worst few weeks of my life. If you go, I will lie here feeling ashamed and confused. If you stay, I will lie here feeling ashamed and confused . . . I just . . . I'm not going to do anything to you, if that's what you're afraid of. I just . . . . missed you."

"I'm not afraid of that," John said quickly. He moved around the bed and climbed in. "I missed you too. Of course I will stay," he said quietly.

Sherlock exhaled slowly and tried to relax his body a little. He leaned over and turned off the lamp. "What are you afraid of, John?" he said in a whisper.

"I'm afraid that I will become comfortable being so close to you and later . . . later you'll tell me to go and it's going to hurt," he said quietly.

"I already told you to go and yet here you are," Sherlock said.

John swallowed back the lump in his throat. "Did you mean that?" he whispered.

Sherlock rolled on his side away from John. "I've never had to clean up my own messes, John," he admitted. "If you weren't here, I thought I could pretend none of it had happened. But then you left and . . . I couldn't. I want you to be here . . . it's me, what I've done, that I don't want to face."

John sighed softly. "But you don't have to face it alone. I will face it with you," he said.  

Sherlock rolled over and looked at John. He was so handsome and good and Sherlock had no idea why John had come into his life or why he'd stayed. "Thank you," he whispered.

John reached out slowly and took Sherlock's hand, just holding it lightly. He didn't say anything else -- he didn't know what else to say.

Sherlock rolled onto his back, still holding John's hand. He closed his eyes and rested.


	10. Confusion

John stayed on his side and watched Sherlock through the dark, willing him to fall asleep quickly and rest. Sherlock had asked if John was going to sleep in here but his brain was shuffling too many thoughts for him to be even close to sleep. It didn't matter. Awake he could watch Sherlock more easily. 

Sherlock's exhaustion made him sleep and for a while it was empty and calm. Then dreams and images seeped in. Nothing made sense -- it was all just confusing and he felt lost and then he woke with a start and still felt confused and lost. John was next to him and Sherlock pushed him away and said, "John, no!" and then curled into himself and started to cry, sobbing the words no and sorry over and over.

John was just starting to doze off, drifting into the early stage of sleep, when he was pushed almost off of the bed. He started and sat up, finally processing what he was hearing. "Sherlock? Sherlock what's wrong? It's okay," John said, moving closer and trying to gently untangle him. 

Sherlock was afraid to open his eyes. "Did I do it again? Oh god, John, I'm sorry . . ." He curled even tighter but at the same time reached out to grip John's arm.

"No, Sherlock you didn't. Nothing happened. It's okay," John said, and he repeated these things as he tried to relax Sherlock's body and grip.

"John," Sherlock said. "I never knew I needed you . . . I never needed anyone, I thought. But you . . . since you're arrived . . . everything's changed." He wasn't sure quite what he was trying to say.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here, okay? I'm not leaving," John said.

"Did I really break your heart, like he said?" Sherlock whispered.

John didn't know what to say.

"I wasn't totally sure I had a heart but I think mine has broken," Sherlock said.

"You're going to be okay now, Sherlock. Everything will be okay now," John promised.

Sherlock let go of John's arm finally. He reached to find his hand. He took a deep breath. There were so many things he was trying to figure out, so many questions he didn't have answers to. Maybe John did. "If you loved me, why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock asked.

"Because you said you didn't do that sort of thing and I didn't want to ruin our friendship by making things awkward," John explained quietly.

"How did you know you did? When? Why?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I just . . . looked at you one day and I knew," he said. "As for why, well, how could I not?" He smiled softly.

"John . . . you know precisely why. I've never been particularly nice and now . . . now you know how cruel I can be," Sherlock said. "I don't understand love, I guess. I feel like you're a good man. How can a good man love someone who's so . . . not good?"

"You are good, Sherlock. You just made a mistake. It's okay now. We'll be okay," John assured him.

"It was a big mistake, John," Sherlock said, closing his eyes again. "But what does it say about me that I can make that mistake . . . even if it never happens again?"

"Mistakes happen," John said gently.

"I don't know, John," Sherlock said. "I don't know if what you say is true. I worry you're confused because of your own feelings and you're making a terrible error forgiving me." As the words came out of his mouth, Sherlock thought carefully about them. If he couldn't just delete what happened, wouldn't the next easiest thing be to just have John forgive him and move on? Of course. But Sherlock was slowly realising that easiest isn't always best. He wasn't sure he deserved forgiveness, and he really was worried that John's feelings of guilt or love or whatever were clouding his judgment, and that wouldn't be right. "I don't remember the last night . . ." he confessed. "But it must have frightened you. Maybe you're just so glad I'm not dead and that's why you're forgiving me. And one day it'll hit you what horrible things I did and then you will hate me. How can you be sure, John?"

"Sherlock, I did think about those things while you were gone. I saw you pass out. I thought you were dying. You were cruel that night, you blamed me -- I've seen how bad it can get and I know it can get worse." He took a deep breath. "I am not confused. I know I love you. And I forgive you."

Sherlock swallowed. "Okay," he said. "I'll try to believe you." He squeezed John's hand. "Thank you." He curled himself a little and pressed his head into the pillow. "I don't know what time it is. You don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"I would like to," John said quietly, lacing their fingers together. "Do you feel better? Do you need anything?"

"I want to put my pajamas on -- clean ones," Sherlock said, sitting himself up. "Actually I should use the bathroom." He stood up and stretched. It felt like his room again.

"I should go change as well. I'll be right back down, okay?" John stood up as well.

Sherlock went to the bathroom and then brushed his teeth and washed his face. He looked in the mirror. He looked scraggy and tired but he looked like himself. He took a few deep breaths. He went back into his room and pulled out some clean pajamas. They seemed clean and soft and comfortable against his skin. He climbed back into bed.

John went to his room and changed quickly, brushed his teeth, and came back to Sherlock's room. "Feel better?" he smiled softly as he climbed into the bed.

"Yeah," Sherlock said. "You sure you're okay about sleeping in here?"

John nodded. "Sherlock, I know that it seems odd to you. But I'm still a bit. . . on guard, I guess. I know there's no drugs anymore and I know we're both of sound mind but . . . it's more important to me to help you. Your health is most important to me."

"You've no reason to trust me, I know," Sherlock said. "I just feel better when you're close..."

"I know nothing's going to happen. I just . . . want to be careful for both of our sakes," John said.

"All right," Sherlock said. He reached over and turned off the light. "Can you lie behind me? Is that too much to ask?"

John thought about it for a moment. "Okay," he said, scooting closer and spooning Sherlock.

"Thank you . . . for everything, I mean," Sherlock whispered and closed his eyes to sleep.

John pressed his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck to show he'd heard. It was easier to sleep this time and within minutes he was drifting off.


	11. Sherlock Tries

When Sherlock woke again, it seemed like it was morning. There were lines of light around his curtains. He felt not alone and he knew it was John. John had stayed the night with him. John had stayed.

He lay there still and silent for a few moments. Why was John Watson so different than any person Sherlock had ever known before? He hated some, he tolerated others, but almost all of them were just boring. But not John. John was different. And Sherlock had known it from the beginning.

John interested Sherlock from the very moment they met. It hadn't taken Sherlock too long to realise that John made him feel, something Sherlock usually avoided. John made him feel curious, made him feel clever, made him feel glad to not be alone. Those things were all new and unusual but overall positive. But sometimes John also made Sherlock feel worried and guilty and responsible. Those feelings weren't positive.

Is that what had set Sherlock off -- realising that his friendship with John was more than just an ego stroke for him? That it was more than just about what Sherlock could take but also about what Sherlock had to give?

He was ashamed to admit it, but that made sense. Sherlock had adjusted to their friendship because at first it was just all about him. Perhaps he was starting to realise it was also about John. Being a good friend is not the same as having a good friend. Perhaps he had panicked because he knew he'd fail at giving John everything that John gave him. He tried to think about that moment he'd realised a bad spell was starting, when his head became overwhelmed with words and sounds. It hadn't been a case that had caused that. It hadn't even been boredom. It had been feelings and Sherlock's utter inability to understand them.

If John was going to stay in Sherlock's life, he'd have to figure out how to deal with feelings. And he'd have to do it properly. He didn't want to just have a good friend anymore -- he wanted to be one. And not knowing how to do that scared Sherlock. But the overdose and Sherlock's cruelty had scared John and John had stayed. To him it must be worth it. Sherlock would have to trust in John's faith that what they had was worth the fear. 

John shifted lightly but kept sleeping. He was so tired, and being in Sherlock's bed with Sherlock healthy and sleeping beside him helped him relax enough to sleep properly. His body was taking all the rest it could get. 

Sherlock turned over and stared at John's sleeping face. He was so handsome and good -- Sherlock had to do right by him. Is there anything Sherlock could do that would be enough -- especially after what had happened? He tried to think about everything John had ever said about himself, about Sherlock, about friendship. Then he remembered that John had said he loved Sherlock. Could Sherlock love John back? Did he already? 

He looked closely at John again. He touched his face. "John," he whispered. "Wake up. I need to ask you something."

John shifted and blinked his eyes open, yawning before focusing on Sherlock. "Hmm? What's wrong?"

Sherlock felt a bit stupid, but he needed John's help. "What do you want from me?"

John's brows furrowed and he closed his eyes for a moment, but then he opened them wide again. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"You said you loved me," Sherlock said. "I want to love you back. I want to do it right so I need you to tell me what you want."

John sobered a bit and rubbed his face hard, looking at him properly. "I want . . .I want you to not say that just because I said it," he said carefully.

"Okay," Sherlock said. "I won't. I won't say it just because you said it." He pushed himself up just a little bit. "What else?"

"I want you to love me," he admitted softly.

Sherlock looked over at him. "How do I know if I do? I mean, I know I have feelings. . . how do I know if those feelings are love?" He slid back down on the bed. "Before . . . you said you loved me but you didn't tell me because you thought I wasn't interested in all that. Maybe I was. Do you think what I felt then was love? Because I still feel what I felt -- even more now -- but I don't know if those feelings are what you need." He hadn't quite intended that ramble, but it was as close as he could get to what he meant.

"I don't know what you felt before. Everyone said that I should be lucky you had allowed me to be your friend so I didn't want to push it. There are different kinds of loves -- you could love me as a friend. But I feel...I love you more because I want more. I want to include what we did when . . . before. That's the kind of love I feel. But maybe you don't." John didn't know if he was making any sense but he hoped Sherlock understood what he was trying to say.

"I know I said I didn't do relationships, because I didn't do any kind of relationships before . . . you. But we had a relationship, didn't we? I mean, don't we?" Sherlock said. "If friends can love each other, maybe I loved you as a friend. Do you think I did -- did I act like I did?"

John thought about everything they had been through together. "Yeah, I think you did love me as a friend," he nodded.

Sherlock felt relieved. "Okay, so if I say it, you'll know I mean and I'm not just saying it because you said it." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I have another thought, though. What if I love you in the other way, you know, like you say you love me?" 

"I don't know what to say. I didn't think you'd want more," John said. He propped his head on his hand, lifting to look at Sherlock better.

"Well, obviously I did want more," Sherlock said. His face flushed with guilt. "I mean, it was all wrong what I did but I did want it . . . with you," he said.

"But it's not . . . sex isn't the only difference," John said quietly. "It's hard to explain but it's something in here," he said, touching over his heart. It was so clichéd but he didn't know what else to say. When he saw Sherlock, when Sherlock was close to him, he felt something he'd never felt with anyone else, even with previous girlfriends. He wished he had words for it, a way to explain it to Sherlock.

"I don't know, John, I don't know," Sherlock said. "I wish I knew for sure but I don't want to mislead you." He wished he could give John precisely what he needed, but he knew it's be worse if he wasn't honest. "All I can say is that you are the most important person in my life -- the only one I ever want to be with and the only one I never want to let down and I know I did and I've never felt worse about anything in my life. I do want to be with you in that way but I understand if I've ruined that forever and maybe you will be able to just sleep by me at least because being near you makes me feel . . . right and I'm sorry those things are all I can give you." He dropped his head a little, feeling stupid but at least he was honest.

John reached out with his free hand and touched Sherlock's cheek softly so that he looked up again. "Everything is not ruined, Sherlock. You're the most important person in my life, too. I think . . . we feel the same," he said. He cupped Sherlock's cheek properly and rubbed lightly with his thumb.

"So I can say I love you and it'll be what you want?" Sherlock looked at John. He was good and handsome and made Sherlock happy and he wanted to make John happy, too.

John nodded, and then his vision blurred and he smiled in embarrassment and dropped his head on Sherlock's shoulder. He nodded again. 

"Is all this . . . good, does it make you feel good?" Sherlock asked softly, reaching over and holding John's hand.

"It makes me feel happy," John said, looking up at him properly again. "You make me happy."

"You make me happy, John Watson," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry I didn't know what was going on before and I'm sorry I did bad things when I got overwhelmed and I want to do everything I can to make things right." He squeezed his hand. "I mean it."

John wanted to lean in and kiss him softly but he thought it might be too soon so he only squeezed his hand and smiled. "It's okay, Sherlock. We're going to be okay now." 

Sherlock slid down so he was flat on the bed. He curled a bit towards John. "I don't want to get up yet," he said. "Can we stay here a bit longer?" He smiled and held onto John's hand.

"Yes," John said, laying flat again. He turned on his side and rest his forehead against Sherlock's arm. "Maybe a small nap?" he smiled. 

"Good," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes. He felt better. He wanted this feeling to stay.


	12. Sherlock Makes Things Right

The next month was one of the most interesting of John's life, and that included when he was regularly finding body parts in the fridge. Sherlock couldn't leave the flat at all and John had worried about what was going to happen during the day -- Sherlock was a handful when he was bored. But he shouldn't have worried.

John went back to work a couple days a week and when he returned, Sherlock was waiting for him with the news of the day and with stories from visiting Mrs Hudson. When John was home they stayed in bed too long and then watched movies which Sherlock talked through. Or Sherlock watched John cook, or they played games.

Lestrade kept up his random searches, usually when Sherlock was alone. They shared Sherlock's bed but didn't do anything more than spoon, and slowly his nightmares became less and less intense.

The morning Mycroft was coming to remove the tag, John had to be at work but he hoped it went all right.

When Mycroft arrived, he declined Sherlock's offer of a cup of tea. He sat down and looked at Sherlock. He looked healthier and happier, though Mycroft did not mention either of these things. "Can I trust you?" he finally asked.

"I'm better," Sherlock said. "I'm. . . better. You can trust me."

"You've said those words before," Mycroft said.

"It's different this time," Sherlock said.

"Those words are also not new."

"John's here," Sherlock said. "He . . . helps me."

Mycroft got up and moved over to Sherlock's chair. He pulled on his leg and bent down to remove the tag.

"Actions have consequences, Sherlock," Mycroft said, keeping his face focused on the tag. "You're not the only one who gets hurt."

"I won't hurt him again," Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft cut the strap and slid the tag into his jacket pocket. "If you start to stumble, let us help you," Mycroft said, before standing up. 

"I will," Sherlock said. "Thank you," he added softly.

Mycroft moved to the door. He looked over at his brother. "Be careful, Sherlock," he said. And then he was gone.

Sherlock stood up and moved to the window, watching Mycroft get into the car. Then he took out his phone.

_I'm free. SH_

John wanted to pick up something special for Sherlock to celebrate. Not knowing what else to do he went to a flower shop and got a bouquet of exotic and rare flowers to bring home. He took a cab and climbed up eagerly.

"There you are," John said as he walked in properly. He hung his jacket and went to Sherlock's chair with the flowers. "I got you these."

Sherlock looked up from the sofa and raised his leg to show the absence of the tag. Then he realised John was holding flowers so he stood up to greet him properly. "Thanks," he said, leaning in a little awkwardly to kiss his cheek and then taking the flowers from him. He carried them in to the kitchen to put them in a vase. "How was work?" he asked.

"Work was the same as always," John said. "Nothing interesting happened. So the tag is finally gone. Do you still have to keep up blood tests and such?"

"Until he says I can stop and he didn't say that," Sherlock said. He set the vase on the table. "Nice," he said. "Thank you." He turned and faced John. "Look, why don't I take you out this evening?"

"I should be taking you to celebrate," John smiled, looking at the flowers. "Where are we going?"

"No, not to celebrate," Sherlock said. "I mean, yeah, but we can celebrate but um...I'm trying to ask you . . . on a date."

"Oh," John said, his smile faltering out of surprise. "I…yes, okay," he said. "I should change." He looked down at himself, trying to sort his head.

"We don't have to, John," Sherlock said, looking down at the flowers. "Forget it . . . I'm sorry . . ." his voice trailed off. Maybe he was rushing John -- it's just that things were starting to feel comfortable again, normal almost, except for the new physical closeness, and with the end of the confinement, Sherlock thought perhaps they could try a date. 

"Don't apologise, please," John said. "Sherlock, I want to, honest. Don't take it back."

"Okay," Sherlock said. "I don't take it back." He smiled. "Nothing fancy just . . . different. A date." He winked at John and then went into his own room to change. 

John sighed in relief when Sherlock didn't change his mind. He hurried up to his own room to freshen up and change into something more appropriate for a date.

Sherlock returned a few moments later and sat down in his chair. He was glad the tag was gone. He was glad John wanted to go on a date. He was nervous, but he was pretty sure he felt happy.

John fussed his hair a bit before coming down to meet Sherlock. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said, turning to look at John. He stood up and walked over. "I'm a bit nervous -- I know it's you, I know it's us, but I . . . we're different and I just want to do things right." He smiled and then helped John on with his coat before slipping his own on. "It'll be good to be outside . . . to move." He smiled as they headed out.

"It's going to be fun, I promise," John said. Once they were outside, John took his hand and laced their fingers.

They walked together to Angelo's. Sherlock held the door open for John. Angelo greeted them, mentioning that he hadn't seen them in a while. Sherlock asked for a candle and then smiled at John when it took Angelo a minute to put two and two together. Once they'd ordered, Sherlock said, "Perhaps we should travel all over tomorrow -- you know, just because I can. Should we hit John O'Groats in the morning, Cornwall in the afternoon, nip over to Calais for dinner and then home for the night?"  
  
"Do you have a teleport machine I don't know about?" John laughed.

Sherlock reached over and touched John's hand. "It's just good to be able to do things," he said. They talked a bit more until the food came. Once it did, Sherlock actually ate -- well, more than he usually did at least.

"Is our date going all right so far?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh yes. It's one of the best so far. The food's delicious," John smiled.

"The best date or the best dinner? I don't want it to just be a dinner with me, like always -- I want it to be a date," Sherlock said, even though he wasn't quite sure why this seemed like such an important distinction.

"The best date I meant, because it's with you," he smiled.

"Good," Sherlock said. "It's my best date, too."  
  
They finished their food and, after a little fussing from Angelo, they headed out towards the park, holding hands.

"I hope I don't get a stomach-ache from eating too much," Sherlock said.

"You ate normal, Sherlock. You'll be okay," he smiled.

"Nothing I do is normal, John Watson," Sherlock said, glancing over at him. They walked for a while and then Sherlock stopped at the bridge and they looked out over the city. "I'm glad you're in my life, John," he said.

"I'm glad you're in mine," John said, leaning on his shoulder as they looked out. "It's been like . . . another life with you." 

"I'm sorry for the bad parts -- I want to make it up to you," Sherlock said. "I just mean I want us to be okay -- for the good to be bigger than the bad."

"Now we just move forward together," John said.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. "Let's go home," he said.

John leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Okay," he said.

They walked home without talking. Sherlock let them into the flat and put the kettle on for tea. When he brought the mugs over, he sat down in his chair and asked, "What about sleeping?"

"What about it?" He asked, looking up at him. "I assumed your room like usual."

"But we've had a date . . . " Sherlock said. "Do you always sleep with people on the first date?" He smiled a little nervously.

"I meant -- I thought you meant about sleeping, like really sleep," John said, flushing lightly.

"I didn't mean anything," Sherlock said. "Or rather, I guess I was asking . . . I don't know, John, I'm sorry, I just . . . I don't know. I'm going to stop talking. Let's finish our tea and then go to bed, like normal. Just different because we've been on a date, but normal, like last night." He pulled the mug up to his face and focused on his tea as he took a drink.

John smiled softly and sipped at his tea. He wondered what Sherlock had really meant, and he hoped maybe it meant Sherlock did want him, even without the drugs. He didn't bring it up again.

When Sherlock finished his tea, he stood up and took both their mugs to the sink to rinse. "You work tomorrow?" he asked, turning back as he dried his hands on the dish towel.

"No, it's the weekend now," John said. He stood up though he didn't really know why.

Sherlock looked over at John. "Come to bed," he said, giving him a little smile and heading into his room.

John followed him to his room. He kept pajamas there now so he started to change. "We should go out again tomorrow. I like dating you," he smiled.

Sherlock put his pajamas on and climbed into the bed. "I like dating you, too," he said. He fiddled with the edge of the blanket.

John climbed into the bed and scooted close like he always did.

Sherlock leaned over and turned off the lamp. He let John spoon him. "Good night," he said, curling himself up.

John wrapped his arm around him, draping it over Sherlock's stomach. "Good night," he murmured against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock pulled John's hand towards him. "I love you," he whispered.

John kissed the back of his neck. "I love you too," he said.

Sherlock tipped his head in response to John's kiss. He wasn't sure what was going on.

John felt him move but it was closer instead of away. Tentatively, he pressed another soft kiss on his neck.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "Aren't we just going to sleep?"

John shifted, moving his mouth and hips away from Sherlock. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Don't stop," Sherlock whispered, squeezing his hand.

John pushed his hips flush against Sherlock again as he lifted his head to properly kiss his neck, moving up towards Sherlock's ear. He remembered what they had done before -- it seemed so long ago now -- and John wanted this to be different. 

"I want to make love to you," he breathed against Sherlock's ear before nipping at the lobe softly.

Sherlock hummed lightly. "Please, John," he said.

John moved so Sherlock was on his back and then climbed on top of him and kissed his mouth. Meanwhile his hands were moving quickly to start removing clothes.

"John," Sherlock repeated. He lifted his head into John's kiss and let his hands rest on John's back. He tried not to worry or even think, but instead just feel.

"Help me . . . help me get this off," John said as he tugged Sherlock's shirt over his head. 

Sherlock did and then pulled at John's t-shirt, struggling a little as John's arms were moving.

When his own shirt was gone, John got down and knelt between Sherlock's legs, pulling off his pajama bottoms. He moaned softly when he saw Sherlock's cock. He took off the rest of his clothes.

Sherlock looked down at John. He wanted him. His head was clear and he wasn't confused. He wanted this. He reached and pulled John towards him, kissing his mouth hungrily.

John kissed Sherlock back just as desperately. Then he leaned up and opened Sherlock's drawer.

As soon as he had the lube, he poured a generous amount into his hand. He pushed Sherlock's legs back a bit and spread it all over, making everything slick. He lay next to him, just stroking his hardening cock as he leaned down and kissed Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock reached for John who was touching him where he'd never touched him before. He closed his eyes and everything felt good and safe.

Eventually, John moved back between Sherlock's legs. He slowly pushed a finger inside of him.

Sherlock slid his hand around John's head, losing his fingers in his hair. He gasped at the feeling of John's finger. "John," he moaned. "It's good. . . "

John moaned softly as he pumped his finger, leaning over to kiss down Sherlock's neck and shoulder and chest. He licked over a nipple, added a second finger, and kept kissing lower over Sherlock's torso.

Sherlock reached down and held himself for a minute, anticipating every kiss John was giving him.

John peeled Sherlock's hand away and took hold of his cock himself. He licked the head before sucking him in, as his fingers moved and spread Sherlock open.

"Fuck, John," Sherlock exhaled. His head was filling with . . . everything, but this time it didn't seem maddening or scary. "Please . . . you feel good . . ." he managed to moan, before lifting a hand to his face to cover it.

John curved his fingers slightly to hit Sherlock's prostate as he moaned around him. 

Sherlock reached a hand down to rest softly on John's head. It wasn't like this before -- he could remember enough to know that the pleasure now was a million times greater than the other times. John was giving Sherlock pleasure -- he was making Sherlock feel good because he wanted to, because he loved him. It was something Sherlock had never experienced. "Please," Sherlock whispered, moving his hand to John's cheek. "John . . . will you kiss me?"

John pulled off of Sherlock's cock and, still pumping his fingers into Sherlock he leaned up and kissed his mouth hard.

Sherlock leaned into the kiss, wrapping his hands around John's head. Then he pulled back and looked at his face. "You make me feel good . . . in every way, John," Sherlock said. "Please . . . I want you to….”

John nodded. He eased his fingers out of Sherlock and rolled a condom on quickly. When he leaned over Sherlock again, he kissed his mouth before gently pushing in. 

Sherlock let his head fall to the pillow as John moved into his body. It'd been so long since Sherlock had done this, and it had never felt like this -- not just the sexual feelings but Sherlock's entire body was full of warmth and safety and . . . love. Sherlock knew for sure now. He knew that is what made John Watson different to anyone else in his life. Sherlock loved John. He let his arms wrap around John's body to press him even closer. 

"Oh god, Sherlock," John moaned softly, moving steadily in and out. He couldn't stop kissing him, breathing heavily against his mouth. 

Sherlock moved his body with John's. It felt so . . . right. He slid his hand between their bodies to hold himself, feeling the friction against John. "John, I . . ." he tried to say but it turned into a soft moan before he could finish.

John nodded, resting his forehead on Sherlock's.

Sherlock started to move his hand with John's rhythm. "Only remember this . . . this is all that matters," Sherlock moaned softly and then he was coming, squeezing around John and arching up off the bed.

"Yes . . . yes," John moaned, following Sherlock and coming into him as Sherlock squeezed around him. It was incredible -- John had never felt so good. Not with anyone. "I love you," he exhaled against Sherlock's mouth as the waves coursed through him. 

Sherlock fell back onto the bed, holding onto John tightly. "I love you, too," he whispered, breathing heavily into John's skin.

John stayed over Sherlock as he caught his breath and got his senses together. Then he slowly pulled out, threw out the condom and lay curled beside Sherlock.  

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John. "Please let it always be like this," he said. 

John nodded. "We're going to be okay now," he said, kissing Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I want to be good to you, John," Sherlock said. "I want to make you happy." He looked closely at John's face. "You've changed everything."

John smiled. Ever since the beginning, he'd thought about all the differences Sherlock had made in John's life. And now he saw that he'd made a difference in Sherlock's as well. A difference Sherlock probably didn't even quite understand yet. But John did. And he knew they'd be all right.


End file.
